


This New Life Breathed Into Me

by fifthnorthumberland



Series: Between the Three of Them [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family Feels, Fix-It, Multi, Poly Family, Polyamory, Watson Family Feels, holmes-watson child, watson baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:51:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7039351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fifthnorthumberland/pseuds/fifthnorthumberland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments before and after Sherlock joined Mary and John's marriage, partnership and family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This New Life Breathed Into Me

Before:

That evening they almost died in a subway wagon, trying to stop other people from being killed, John regretted not telling Sherlock he loved him. When Sherlock, with a bomb he didn’t know how to deactivate below him, looked up at him, John knew he’d finally die for, or rather with, his best friend. The moment he believed Sherlock was manipulating him passed quickly as Sherlock’s expression became sincere and John started to believe he would die. He thought of Mary and the future they wouldn't have together and then about the years he'd had with Sherlock and the years _without_ Sherlock and he knew he had to say it, had nothing to lose, so close to death (and they had been this close before, but they usually only knew that once they were safe), but what had come out was another truth. A less powerful one, but an important one nonetheless.

“ _I wanted you not to be dead_.” he’d said.

“ _Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for. If I hadn’t come back, you wouldn’t be standing there, you’d still have a future, with Mary._ ” Sherlock could always read his mind at the most inconvenient moments and misunderstand him when it was crucial.

“ _I know. Look, I find it difficult–I find it difficult, this sort of stuff_.”

“ _I know_.” Did he?

“ _You were the best, and the wisest man I have ever known. And, yes, of course I forgive you_.”

When the bomb didn't go off and Sherlock started to giggle, John was in an instant full of rage, relief and decisiveness. When he'd been on the edge of dying, he'd made the decision to do what now seemed inevitable: to live out the other truth. He'd only been honest with himself about his feelings for Sherlock a few times since he fell for the detective. When he'd died, though, the hole Sherlock's absence had dug in his chest was too important and painful to ignore.

When he met Mary, his grief was a bit behind him, and she'd helped him carried the rest of it. He always thought that she must understand how deeply he'd loved Sherlock Holmes. She never told him to get over it, never pressed him to put his past behind him. She was always present and supportive, and John tried to be a better version of himself for her. He tried not to be in love with his dead best friend as he knew he was falling in love with her, but there wasn't a thing to be done for it. He felt that she knew what an important role in his life Sherlock had played. Now that Sherlock was back from the dead, having just put them in harm's way and then saved them from it for the umpteenth time, for the first time in his new life, things were different. Now, he wanted Mary to know what he had wished Sherlock's role in his past life to be. He wanted her to know that he still wanted it now and that he didn't want her any less. He had a feeling that she would get it.

 

Earlier:

"I like him", she had said in the back of a cab, after he'd punched Sherlock for the third time that evening. John was baffled. She liked him. How could she like the man who made him grieve and made him lonely by faking his own death and disappearing for 2 years? How could she forgive him for the hurt she'd witnessed herself John go through?

John didn't know how he would forgive Sherlock yet. He knew he would, he had missed the madman too much, loved him too much, not to. But Mary had barely been outraged or angry when Sherlock revealed himself, interrupting John's proposal. She had accepted his return as if she had expected to meet him any day.

She liked him. Well. John was slightly relieved, he had to admit. Among all of the emotions he felt that night, there was a lot of anger, but there was just a bit more relief. His grieving was over. This old pain, this loneliness was gone. A new pain had formed, like a bruise deep beneath skin, at being left out for 2 years by his – he now realized that that’s what Sherlock had been to him, life partner. He still couldn't understand why Sherlock had done what he'd done and how, but he was too relieved to really care at the moment. Mary liked him.

Shock would fade once he got home, he knew, and he'd break down again, full of anger and sadness. He'd be a mess for as long as Sherlock would leave him alone, before his life became a whirlwind of Mary, Sherlock, crime scenes, marriage, work, the Work, love, love, Sherlock, Mary. At least, he hoped. Before anxiety would make a mess of his hopes and of the what ifs dancing around his head, he held onto this future he let himself want for the first time. Because it was possible now.

 

Later:

She knew almost nothing about Sherlock Holmes, only what she read in the papers and the little bits that John’s told him, but she liked him already. They met a few weeks ago and he’d started to become a part of John’s life again, and of her life as well. He was brilliant, though she never doubted John’s description of his character, and she wanted him to like her. She had a sense he would. She was afraid he would be jealous once he’d made his reappearance, or that she would be, of one another’s relationship with John, but they were so different and, she came to understand, complimentary, that it was never an issue. Sherlock was no doubt hurt by the time they’d had to spend apart and she felt for him. The thought of having to leave John to protect him and assure their relative safety in the future, though she would not hesitate to do it if necessary, was unbearable. So, in a way, she understood him, in a way John couldn’t.

She also hated him on some days. On the days when John would be reminded of how long he grieved his best friend, of the walks they took in the cemetery where he was supposedly buried, of having been left behind… On those days, she really hated Sherlock. She was angry at him for inflicting this much pain on a man who’d had more than his fair share already and deserved none of it. She wanted to make him apologize and make amends and beg for forgiveness like he ought to, but John had already forgiven him. Only, he was still hurt.

The first time, she found him in front of the refrigerator, frozen in place. It took her a moment to realize his breathing was too quick and ragged, that he was trembling, hand a bit too tight on the door. A panic attack. She knew how to recognize them in John well by then. Nightmares and PTSD were part of their daily lives, though there were periods when they weren’t as frequent. She announced herself and placed a hand on his back gently, and just like that, he unfroze and started to hyperventilate. She guided him down to sit on the floor with his back to the cupboards beside the refrigerator and told him to breathe and count, _Breathe in, one, two, three, four, that’s it, John. Breathe out, one, two, three, four_. And again, and again until his breathing was back to normal. After, he’d sobbed and she’d put an arm around him, telling him he was alright, he’d be alright.

In these moments, she hated that Sherlock wasn’t there for John. She also knew that he wasn’t there for a reason, that John wouldn’t trust him yet to allow himself this much vulnerability. She hoped he would one day. She wished his grief would alleviate someday, too.

 

After:

The days grew quiet and slow. As Mary entered her third trimester, Sherlock took some time off, meaning he wrote a note of absence on the blog and explained to Lestrade that John and Mary were going to be parents soon and would need his help around the house. Mary and John had moved into Baker Street after their exchange of rings, temporarily, at Sherlock’s insistence that he would feel much better about the whole pregnancy thing if he could keep a closer eye on Mary.

Both she and John had to admit that they were excited about living in 221B. John was anxious to find the familiarity of it that he hadn’t found in much of his life since Sherlock had left. Mary was looking forward to seeing the two of them in dressing gowns, drinking tea with eyes still glued with sleep every morning. She also really didn’t mind being looked after by two partners and having some house chores taken off her hands. John she expected to be diligent and patient with her cravings and pains and all of the rest of what pregnancy brought along, but she and John were thoroughly surprised when Sherlock started to ask questions about the pregnancy.

John found some reliable and comprehensive web pages for Sherlock to assuage his curiosity and Mary let him monitor whatever he wanted within reason. As far as the pregnancy went, all was well. Sherlock kept busy with research and John was happy to work a few hours at the clinic here and there and to be at home with his spouses the rest of the time. Their hectic and chaotic rhythm evened out to a reasonable, family-friendly schedule of breakfast, shopping, reading the paper, watching the telly, medical appointments, work, research, social visits, etc. Oddly enough, it drew none of them to madness.

Sherlock slept more, they all did, but the insomnia still kept him up some nights. It was easier to recuperate these days, so he didn’t mind getting up and busying himself with an experiment or reading. One night, he woke up in the early morning with Mary’s feet tangled in his, and found that he couldn’t fall back asleep. He made sure he didn’t wake her up when he got out of bed and noticed on his way out of the room that John wasn’t in bed either. He too sometimes suffered from insomnia. Or was it nightmares that night? Sherlock set out for the common living area to find out.

John was sat in his chair (once he came back, before John was back with Mary, he still thought of it as John’s chair), reading a magazine. The lamp on his old desk illuminated the pages and his face. He wore glasses. John hadn’t worn glasses before. Hadn’t needed him. John had excellent vision, didn’t he? He’d shot a man in the head from yards away only a few years back, hadn’t he? John looked up as Sherlock sat down in his armchair, a look of confusion and surprise at Sherlock’s frown. He couldn’t seem to stop his face from doing that. Glasses.

“Sherlock, what is it?” John asked, putting down his magazine.

“Since when are you wearing glasses?” He must have gotten them before Sherlock’s return, he’d have noticed, he’d have seen him use them, observed the indents they left when worn, wouldn’t he?

“I got them ‘bout a year ago. Is that what bothers you?”

Was it? No, glasses were inoffensive, that’s not what John meant. What did he mean? Did it bother him that he hadn’t noticed? Yes. Did it upset him? Yes.

“I- I just missed so much.” He said after a moment of silence.

John leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He took a deep breath.

“Yes, you did. But we’re here now.”

It hit him then how little they’d spoken of what had happened in those two years he’d be gone. All the little things he’d missed. The glasses. How had John and Mary met? When had John moved out of 221B? How often did he visit Mrs. Hudson? How had he went on when Sherlock’s heart had been broken the moment John’s fingers left his wrist as he lay on the pavement, covered in his own blood after facing Moriarty one last time?

“How could I do this to you, John? How did I leave and let you believe I was dead, let you _mourn me_ , for Christ’s sake!” he said, disgusted with himself. He’d felt the guilt and worry eat him alive for two years, but this disgust was new. He felt sick.

Moving closer, John sighed, shook his head and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock almost jerked back at the touch, undeserving of sympathy.

“Sherlock, look at me.” John asked. It was hard, but he did.

“Sherlock Holmes, I love you. I forgave you a long time ago and I don’t want you to feel repentant for the rest of your life or any of that crap. You’re the love of my life. You, and Mary. You’re my family. Nothing’s goin’ to change that.”

Sherlock breathed deeply, trying to take it in, to process it all. John continued.

“I’m still angry sometimes, because even though I understand why you did it, why you- Why you left me, it still hurt. I’m not going to pretend it didn’t hurt because it bloody did.” The last bit came out quick, John’s voice clipped with emotion.

“But I want you here more than anything and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about those two years.” Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. There was so much he needed to know. He was suddenly grateful, for the umpteenth time in this life and the last one for this man he now called his spouse. He took John’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing it softly.

“That means more than you can understand, John, thank you. And if-“ he hesitated to offer what he was about to, afraid of hurting John any further, but he had to at least offer, so he continued “if you ever want to know what I did during those two years, I’d answer every question.”

John couldn’t seem to find words for a moment, but then he nodded and said a quiet, but solemn “Thank you. That- that helps.”

At that, Sherlock had had about his quota of sentiment for this early in the morning and got up to fetch his violin. He knew it wouldn’t wake Mary, as she was where Sherlock had set them all up in John’s old room. His heart was lighter and his mind clearer, but sleep hadn’t caught up with him, nor John, yet.

He played for an hour to John, putting everything he felt and couldn’t name –for fear of facing it or for lack of data- into the songs that flowed from him. Songs he’d learned in his rare happy moments before meeting John, songs he’d played for John when they both couldn’t sleep before The Fall, a composition he was working on for the child that would join their family soon, and finally, Mary and John’s waltz.

John fell asleep after the first few song, somewhere before the one for his child, and Sherlock was glad of it. Best to keep it a surprise until he could play it to the child. The thought flooded his heart with hope, joining the relief and affection that already floated near his ribs, a happy concoction that made breathing easier. He’d wake John in a moment and guide him back to bed, but for now he wanted to savour this instant of peace and quiet before the chaos of new life entered their home. He looked forward to it.

 

Finally:

There was a moment when John and Mary came back from an echography with pictures of the baby, when they realized they’d been doing something wrong. Sherlock held the picture, cradled it in his hand while he held his mouth with this other one, hiding a smile, tears falling from his eyes. He’d looked up at them with all this joy and hope in his eyes, and said “It’s a girl. You’re having a girl.” his voice far from solid. Mary went to him instantly, held his shoulders, and John knelt in front of Sherlock, taking his hand still holding the picture.

“She’s perfectly healthy and so am I, Sherlock.” She couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she said “We’re having a girl.”

Sherlock laughed, wiping away his tears. “You’ll make fine parents. I’m so thankful you’re letting me be a part of this”, he said.

John frowned and looked up at Mary, who seemed to be as confused as he was. He caressed Sherlock’s hand with his thumb, trying to convey comfort and affection. This was all so new, and yet, it came so easily and naturally. Why hadn’t Sherlock known how involved they wanted him to be?

“Sherlock, we want you involved in every step of the way with this. I’m sorry if you haven’t felt included, we just thought you didn’t care for all those appointments and classes.” He paused to gauge Sherlock’s reaction. The detective seemed confused and hopeful. John continued; “You’re this child father as well, after all.” At that, Sherlock’s eyes widened. “If you’d like to be, of course.” John added. He knew, at the very least he hoped, that Sherlock was wishing for this, was ready to be a part of their child’s life. Sherlock was baffled. He looked to Mary. Mary who was smiling at him, a hand on her round and protruding belly. She looked at him with such tenderness, it made John’s heart swell with joy and pride.

“She’s yours as much as she’s John, you know. I wouldn’t be here without you and John either. She wouldn’t be here without you, Sherlock. God, I can’t wait to see you hold her. You’ll take such good care of our girl.” She said, tears brimming.

Another tear fell onto Sherlock’s cheek, a full smile on his face, and he said solemnly “Of course, I will.” He kissed her cheek tenderly, then John’s temple, and finally her belly.

“We’ll all take care of you” he said to Mary’s belly. He looked to John, then Mary, and, addressing their yet-to-be-born child, “We can’t wait to meet you.”

Later they’d find each other in bed, Sherlock tracing shapes on Mary’s belly with her permission (she liked how he always asked, how he understood her body was still hers), John caressing Sherlock’s back (to whom it was more soothing, they couldn’t tell). Mary, her voice drowsy, asked them both;

“So, any more ideas for baby names, boys? Because Hamish and Sherlock are definitely not happening.”

John laughed and Sherlock smiled, sleepy. John blanked and Mary couldn’t find a favorite among the ones she’d thought up, and then Sherlock made a suggestion they instantly liked.

“How about ‘Meredith Watson’?” Still tracing shapes on Mary’s belly (chemical formulas for happiness), he looked up at Mary, then John, whose hand had stilled on his back. John looked back to Mary, that happy and surprised smile on his face Sherlock loved so much, the one he’d get from John when he did something amazing. Mary placed a hand on Sherlock’s head, thumb tracing his temple, and said “That’s brilliant.” None of them knew why, but it was.


End file.
